Let's conspire to ignite
by smaragdbird
Summary: Steampunk AU: Eight years ago John managed to escape the massacre. Now that he's back, the past is catching up with him faster than he would like.  John/Erik with unrequited John/Bobby and Erik/Charles
1. Old Sins

The train worked its way slowly through the landscape while John tried to work on his notes but he kept wandering. From the window he could see a steamboat working its way upstream and remembered an article in the newspaper that the Order of Watt was working on developing flying machines. The world became smaller and smaller every time he returned to civilisation and soon no one would read his books anymore because everyone could simply travel there for themselves.

John tried not to think too hard about that. As if it hadn't been difficult enough to find a publisher in the first place, after all he had been Pyro, right hand man of Magneto, leader of the New Order. They had wanted to explore new technologies, electricity and combustion, which had been a sacrilege in the eyes of the Church and the Order of Watt and the annihilation of the New Order had been short, efficient and thorough.

It still remained a small miracle that they hadn't executed him for treason or at least exiled him. Everyone, however, knew his name and it would be impossible for him to find employment should his books stop selling.

For now he was back from another journey and on the train to Boston, where they would arrive in a few days. John smiled to himself when he thought about Bobby and the trinket he got for him this time. Once he was back in the place he considered home he would be able to work on his book more easily than here on the train where his thoughts liked to stray.

/

Like nearly every child Bobby Drake had once dreamed of faraway places and adventures. When he had grown older reality had intruded into his dreams and he had found that he liked to stay home and listen to other men's stories.

He had dreamed of becoming an engineer, an inventor but the civil war between the Order of Watt and the New Order and the subsequent victory of the former had prevented anyone who was not part of the Order of Watt to achieve that profession. And Bobby was reservist for the Keepers, a group that monitored the peace between the Church and the Pagans. He couldn't have gone to university if he had wanted to.

Resigning himself to his life he had begun to work in a tavern had turned out to be one of the best things that could have happened to Bobby because here he met John.

At first he had thought that John was just another drifter, travelling through the country with the seasons to find work but then one night when there had been nothing else to do Bobby had asked him what he did and the next day Bobby had bought his books. He liked them a lot. John had a witty humour and was very descriptive of the things he had seen but not condemning unusual rituals or morals. It was refreshing compared to all those presumptuous travel novels written by missionaries or businessmen.

John himself was a lot like this: open, funny, clever. He didn't just see Bobby as an audience but asked him questions about his own life, remembered details Bobby had told him even when he had been on another journey in between.

And John brought him little things from his travels: a book with designs of inventions from the ancient world he had found in Greece, a magic box from Japan that let things you put inside it disappear, a silver bangle with inlaid lapis lazuli stones that formed snowflakes from Afghanistan, a traditionally made quilt from Peru.

And all Bobby gave him was a place to sleep when he was in town and an open ear for his stories. John liked to tell tales but with his history he knew that every fictional novel of his wouldn't make it past censure, claiming it to be New Order propaganda.

Bobby never knew when John would come back, once he had been gone a year and a half and most places John travelled to didn't have mail but he knew that John would come back.

"Hey." John said when he walked to the bar. He looked rugged and tanned but tired, Bobby thought when he smiled back and answered, "Hey."

For a moment or two they simply stood there and smiled at each other, it was a good feeling.

"Where have you been this time?" Bobby asked. It was early afternoon and he had only a handful of guests, which Marie could handle. He walked upstairs with John to his room.

"The Near East."

"But I thought the Ottoman Empire forbids Westerners to go there."

"They do. I disguised myself and I know enough Greece and Arabic to fool them."

"I bet your new book is going to read like a spy novel." Bobby said, fascinated.

"I don't know...I mean it would be the perfect set up for a cloak-and-dagger story but..." He trailed off. Both of them knew that this story would never leave John's head for anything but to tell it Bobby in the safety of his room.

"Here." John rumoured through his bag: "I got this for you." He put a thin book and a little box onto the desk.

"The Heart of Darkness," Bobby read from the cover. He looked questioningly at John: "Wasn't that the title of the story you told me when you came back from Africa?"

"Yes, do you remember that I told you that I came up with it together with this Polish guy, Joseph Conrad? Well, he published it. He even credited me, indirectly." Bobby opened the book and read the inscription on the first page:

To a good friend

Don't let reality get in the way of a good story

There was something wistful in John's eyes that made Bobby cross the room and sit down on the bed next to him.

"Hey, at least you have this." He put his hand on John's bag which was no doubt filled with notebooks full of John's experiences of a country that was forbidden for them.

"I know. Only sometimes it doesn't feel like it's enough." He gave Bobby a valiant smile and Bobby fought the urge to put an errand strand of John's long, dark hair behind his ear. It wouldn't be appropriate, even not for such close friends as them.

Bobby put the book on the quilt and opened the box. It contained a leather chain with a bright orange and yellow stone as a pendant. When he touched it the stone felt smooth under his fingertips and looked like a small sun inlaid in another, white stone.

"I found it at a market in Egypt," John told him with a soft voice: "The man I bought it from told me that it was sun stone and made in old times when the Egyptians still worshipped the sun and the other stone is from a star that fell from the sky, a comet. I..." He hesitated and when his eyes met Bobby's something bright shone in them: "I thought it was fitting because comets always return to the sun, and I always return to you."

"Thank you." Bobby answered and slipped the leather chain over his head. The stone felt cold even through his shirt.

"Bobby!" Marie called and Bobby stifled a groan but stood up nonetheless: "I'll leave you to your notes."

"Sure." John hid his disappointment at the interruption. He had spend too much time alone and longed to talk to someone, but he could wait if he had to. Bobby held up the book John had given him:

"Maybe you could read it to me tonight?" He asked. He was a slow reader but he loved hearing stories and usually John indulged him and read every book for him that Bobby found interesting.

"I'll wait for you." John promised and made a shoeing motion that made Bobby close the door behind him with a laugh.

John crossed the room and sat down on the desk chair with an appreciative groan, pulling his notebook from his bag. The familiarity of Bobby's room eased his mind, made it easier to let his thoughts wander back to the places he had seen on his journey and spin stories away from the facts that he would later confine into a printed book.

He had never told Bobby this but before meeting him John hadn't told any stories that hadn't been true. Bobby was what the poets of the last century had called 'his muse'. John laughed softly at that thought because his mind came up with the pictures of muses he had seen in galleries. Scantily clad, beautiful women that whispered all the secrets of the invisible world into men's ears so that those men would clad them into books or poems, into pictures and sculptures. No, Bobby wasn't a muse, but John could easily picture him as one of the noble heroes that had defended Troy against the Achaeans, maybe Aeneas or Sarpedon, but John preferred to think about Bobby as Aeneas because he was the one who had survived.

John had often wondered why Bobby, who was so obviously intelligent that he could be one of the engineers working on the Titan, the flying flagship of the Order of Watt, wasted his time within the Keepers, monitoring the peace between the Church and the Pagans.

When he had asked Bobby the other had shrugged and said something about owing it to the Keepers but hadn't elaborated what he owed them for.

His fingers lingered over his battered notebooks, the pages well worn and the leather cover ripped and adorned with water stains but instead of opening his typewriter John pulled out the top drawer and took a sheet of letter paper out.

Dear Joe,

I just received your book when I sat my feet on solid ground again. Congratulations, you deserved it and I hope many of your adventures will follow...

He came down to the main room later and found his usual table unoccupied. Bobby smiled at him from the bar when he passed it and John smiled back. It was loud and busy, a couple sailors on shore leave sung rowdy songs until a man, who was apparently their commanding officer came in and put an end to it.

John revelled in the crowd but didn't join in. For now he felt content to sit here, listening to the familiar Boston accent and eating Piotr's excellent stew again.

"Hey, sugar, what can I do for you?" Marie leaned flirtingly against his table. In her crème and maroon costume she looked nearly like a proper lady and not like a tavern girl.

"Looking fine, are you going out?" John asked back.

"You were gone too long. You always miss everything." She complained to him. Her dark hair was curled and carefully tied up instead of falling loose and straight like usual.

"And yet you never complain about the coins I leave here." He replied easily. "I have to earn them somehow."

"You could work here. I'm sure Piotr would let you." It was an old argument. John couldn't stay neither here nor anywhere else.

The door opened and a man with shoulder long brown hair and an extravagant purple coat glided inside.

"Ah, Cherie, you didn't need to dress up for me like that," he winked at Marie, looking her up and down with his sly eyes.

"But I appreciate the effort," he whispered into her ear, having placed an arm around her waist.

"Hands off Remy," Marie slapped him and stepped away but she blushed slightly.

"Par de bleu, qu'est ce mes yeux voient! Le John Allerdyce célèbre, quelle surprise."

"Quel plaisir de te revoir," John replied dryly. Remy made a gesture for him to wait a moment, sauntering over to the bar.

"Robert, j'espère que tu me ne manques pas?"

"English, Remy," At which Remy rolled his eyes.

"What do they teach you keepers beyond old scripts and even older morals?" He asked exasperatedly. "Ah, c'est pas grave, laisse tomber." He waved the question away just as Bobby opened his mouth. "A bourbon if you please."

"Only if you can pay." Bobby crossed his arms over his chest.

"Un moment," Remy glided back to Marie, saying, "maybe you could help me out, mademoiselle?" And pulled a coin out from behind her ear.

"Merci beaucoup," he said, kissing Marie's hand which she answered with a delighted giggle. Bobby rolled his eyes but accepted the coin, giving Remy the requested bourbon.

"A game to celebrate your return?" Remy asked, the cards already dancing between his hands.

"I'm fresh out of local currency."

"A friendly game then. I do accept other things than money as chère Kitty here can vouch for," He pulled Kitty, who had approached their table, into his lap. "When are you going to leave this place and run with me for the beauty of New Orleans?"

"A girl's got to eat." Kitty reminded him, getting up and smoothing out her skirt.

"I offer you the stars and the moon." Kitty shook her head, walking back to bar.

"Your charms have lessened I see." John grinned. Remy leaned in conspirationally.

"Every woman has to present an honourable face to the world."

"You're just a regular Dorian Gray, aren't you?"

"I never sold my soul and my pleasures are not degraded."

Suddenly the door was opened and someone bellowed, "City Watch! Curfew!" The men line up along the window side and covered every other exit including the door to the stairs. John cursed silently. If he hadn't been distracted by Remy he would have noticed the lateness of the hour and returned upstairs already.

Remy, of course, was gone without a trace.

A general grumbling spread through the crowd but apparently no one had drunk enough ale to confront the City Watch directly. Everyone lined up, rummaging around in their pockets for their papers and rolled up their left sleeves for inspection of any brands: mendax for liars, furis for thieves, occisor for thugs, coa for whores, homicida for murderers, stuprator for desecrators, nefas for pagans and peccator for sinners like John. They weren't allowed to be out on the streets after curfew.

Bobby gave him an alarmed look but there was nothing either of them could do, so John gave him a shrug. It wouldn't be the first time he spent in jail. They would keep him there a couple days, have their fun with him and then set him free again.

"Hey, you, move!" One of the watchers bellowed. Wordlessly John rolled up his left sleeve and held his arm out for inspection. The P had faded into white around the edges but a couple patches were still angrily red even though it had been years since he had been branded. The Church liked to make sure that the brands didn't fade too much.

"You're violating the curfew." The City Watch Captain told John as if he didn't know that.

"He lives here." Bobby had come over from the bar and stood in front of the captain.

"Do you have the papers to prove that?" The captain asked almost bored. To John's utter surprise Bobby didn't hesitate with his answer.

"Yes, here, "He gave the captain a passport that couldn't be John's because his was up in Bobby's room among his notebooks and it certainly it didn't say that he was living at the tavern. He couldn't. His mark made it nearly impossible for him to permanently settle down anywhere.

"Fine, "The Captain tilted his head towards his men, "let him go." The watcher that had been holding John's arm shoved him roughly in Bobby's direction so that John stumbled into him but Bobby managed to catch him quite easily.

The watcher that had held him spat on the floor. "Nice company you keep here." He sneered.

"He's a keeper, what do expect." Another watcher replied disdainfully.

"Is there a problem?" Piotr, who had come out from the kitchen for the inspection, crossed his arms over his chest and looked down on the watchers. He was easily a foot taller than anyone else in the room and built like a brick house.

"Let's go." The captain motioned to the door, clearly not keen on challenging Piotr to a fight. No one ever was.

But before he could someone else came in, also in a watcher uniform but it was the dress uniform instead of the regular one.

"I'm sorry I'm late," He addressed Marie before noticing anyone else in the room.

"It's your free day Logan, what are you doing here?" The captain asked bemusedly.

"Viktor," Logan acknowledged him but didn't answer his question. Instead he turned to Marie again, offering her his hand.

"May we go?" She smiled delightedly at his gallantry and took his hand. Everyone stared at them when they walked out. One look from Piotr made it clear that he wouldn't tolerate any more harassment and the watchers left as well.

"Here," Bobby pressed the fake passport against John's chest. "We can talk later." His fingers felt warm against John's chest especially after what had just happened and he really didn't want to step away from Bobby but he had to.

"Thank you," John said quietly before slipping back upstairs.

/

John studied the fake passport intently, sitting on the spare bed in Bobby's room, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders since it was already late autumn and cold winds came from the sea. He had spent too much time in too warm climates where the eternal sun had darkened his skin and bleached his hair.

It was a good fake, even the sign of the Baron looked genuine to him. But, at least for John, it was obviously fake since his birth date was off by a couple years. Then he looked up to see his own face in the mirror and was reminded mercilessly that his life had taken its toll on his face. He looked older than he was old enough that few people would guess his actual age accurately. The date on the passport might not be real but it was truthful.

John attempted to take out one of his notebooks and start to transform it into the beginning of his new book but he couldn't concentrate on the words. After he had read the same page for about ten times without reading a single word, he gave up, sat down on the spare bed instead and looked out of the window. Since the last time he had been in Boston the City Watch had installed gas lanterns in every single street along the sea, making the city shine and sparkle at night like a star.

Slowly his thoughts wandered off, back to days where he slept in the desert, the freedom and fear of detection but one that he could evade with lies, not something that was burned into his skin. His fingers unconsciously traced the brand but as soon as he realised what he was doing, John wrapped his hand around his forearm, angry with himself.

Finally he heard Bobby's familiar steps on the outside.

"Hey," he said, closing the door behind him.

"Hey, " John answered, smiling.

"About the passport.." Bobby said straight away, then hesitated.

"It's a good fake," John told him, "but why would you…" he trailed off.

"I thought it would be nice. If you had a home again. I mean, you always come back here for the last six years and I thought…" He looked helplessly at John.

"Thank you." John answered sincerely. "Thank you."

John was smiling at him and Bobby smiled back like he always did but no one seemed to want to break the eye contact first. They were standing too close but Bobby couldn't remember when either of them had moved. It was as if they just gravitated towards each other.

Then John leaned suddenly forward, closing the distance between them by pressing his lips to Bobby's.

Bobby swallowed and tensed because he couldn't...he didn't...this wasn't what he wanted.

When the hell had they become this?

John stepped back from him, a look of pure horror on his face.

"I...I'm sorry...I didn't...I didn't mean to..." He was out of the door before Bobby had made up his mind on how he should react to this, never mind how he wanted to react to this.

The fake passport lay forgotten on the desk.

Bobby slowly sat down on the bed, unconsciously touching his lips. John's lips had been dry but there was a just a hint of ginger there, lingering from the soup John had eaten earlier.

He had been right not to call John back, hadn't he? This sort of behaviour was unacceptable, only a nasty rumour from ships and prisons and...Bobby choked when he remembered that John had been in prison before being branded and exiled. That must have been where he had picked this up because men...men didn't do this with each other.

Bobby shivered when another ocean current blew through the leaky window. He took the quilt, the one John had given him and for a moment he was tempted to throw it away along with everything else that belonged to John or had been a gift from him. Bobby was angry at him for making him question himself.

The rules were established to bring peace and balance, those were the creed of a keeper and those were the words Bobby lived by. It wasn't his place to question the laws of man. There was nothing wrong with them.

Was there?

/

John didn't even look where he was going. Stumbling through too bright streets with their gaslights and lack of privacy until everything around him was unfamiliar and dark again. It smelled like piss and rotten vegetable and dirt. He bought alcohol from a street vendor, cheap stuff that burnt his throat but half a bottle of it finally took the edge of, blurred his world in a way that made him feel detached from it.

He closed his eyes, leaning against the nearest wall and thought of someone with friendly, blue eyes, someone he knew he had no business fantasizing about, someone just out of his grasp...Someone he knew would never have him now that he was damaged goods.

Someone laughed, the shrill, drunken laughter of a whore trying to lure her customer away into the shadows and rob him.

His head hit the wall hard. He brought his hand up to brush away a stray lock that seemed to be stuck to the side of his face and his fingers came away bloody.

"Your money, sir," the man hissed with breath so bad John had to turn his face away despite the knife at his throat. And then the man's words registered and he laughed.

The knife cut into his throat. "Silence!"

"I'm no sir," John grinned. He couldn't stop finding the situation hilarious.

"Then your corpse will fetch a nice price for the uni-"He collapsed. John stared at him absentmindedly wiping blood from his throat.

When he heard steps he looked up to find someone else on the opposite side of the crumbled heap between them.

"Erik." Another giggle broke out his throat. Whatever the stuff was he had bought, it was good.

"Did you decide after eight years it's time to haunt me?" Erik hauled him away from the wall and head first into under a pump which he opened over John's head.

When John managed to scramble away from the water Erik was gone.

Maybe the hour for ghosts is over, he thought more soberly. John never cared for ghosts and he still had half a bottle left because being sober was the last thing on his mind at the moment.

But a strong hand wrapped itself around his wrist as soon as he tried to take another mouthful.

"Let me," John hissed, without looking who was trying to steal the only comfort he had left. The other one wound the bottle out of his grip and John went down to the ground.

"You're pathetic." John hadn't heard that voice in eight years but he still recognised it. Looking up from under his wet bangs he found Erik's cool green eyes on his. "Is that what has become of you? A drunkard in an alley?"

"You know nothing." John scrambled back to his feet. He was sober now, maybe more sober than he had been in years.

"I judge by what I see."

"You were dead." John hissed. Erik raised an eyebrow at that. "I had to leave you in the dark. It wasn't safe for me."

"And it's now?" John sneered. "In case you missed it, we're this close to an open war between the Pagans and the Church."

"That is exactly why I am back. I need to talk to you, show you something." He started to walk away but stopped once he realised that John wasn't following him.

"No." John said simply.

"Pyro-"

"Don't call me that. You're dead. It's over. We lost."

"As long as one of us is still alive we have not lost. We can still have our revenge, crush the Order of Watt and return to our righteous place."

"Revenge?" John asked with a mix of anger and disbelief colouring his voice. "If I wanted revenge I can have it right here." He pushed him against the wall, drawing a dagger, holding it against his throat. "You left Raven for the Order to find. Any reason I shouldn't do the same to you?"

"I can't think of any I haven't already told you. Can you?"

"Did you even stay long enough to see what they did to her?" When Erik remained silent, John shook his head, disgusted.

"You live and you are free."

"Free, "John scoffed, "Does this look like freedom to you?" He rolled up his sleeve, exposing the brand to Erik. "And as for being alive, do you think they didn't make me regret it by the end of it? Do you really think I was that lucky?"

John smiled, bitter and broken and Erik felt like he was back in 1894, sending John to die.

"I don't have time for this, Pyro. Have you forgotten everything? Have you become that complacent in your new little, unimportant life?" Erik's tone was snide, disparaging mixed with anger and the tiniest thread of fear that he had lost John.

"I followed you into hell." John yelled, furious that Erik would question his loyalty.

"Then why not follow me into life again?" Erik grabbed his arm. "They marked you. Will you just let that stand? Endure it like cattle?"

"You abandoned all of us eight years ago. I owe you nothing." But Erik's hand tightened around John's arm.

"I came back for you! Do you realise that?" Erik's voice became louder with each word.

"You came a little too fucking late! There's nothing left of me and the sooner you realise that the sooner we can forget."

"So you will all our sacrifices be in vain."

"What sacrifices have you made?" John sneered.

"I left you. I threw Raven to the wolves. I sent you to die. I stood and watched, unable to prevent the slaughter. Do you think it was easy to watch you die?"

Entirely the wrong time to know this. Entirely the wrong time to see each other again. No possible good reason for Erik Lehnsherr to find him on a dirty Boston street and save his life when John wasn't entirely sure that he had any intentions of surviving the night.

"Go," John said resigned.

"John-"

"I said go." He started walking away from Erik.

And once again, Erik let him go.

/

Charles Xavier knew things. He couldn't have explained how but he simply did. That was how he had become High Keeper despite his relatively young age.

He had always known that Erik Lehnsherr hadn't died during the Long Day.

"Erik," Charles greeted him, no surprise, nothing giving away that Charles couldn't have possibly known that Erik had survived the massacre eight years ago but yet did. "It is good to see you again my friend."

"You knew." Erik didn't sound surprised that Charles knew.

"I did," Charles replied. "What brings you back to Boston?"

"An old friend."

"And an old bill you have to settle?"

"No sermon, Charles," Erik said quickly with the hint of an exasperated smile. It had been eight years but yet talking to him Charles felt as if Erik had never left. As if they had seen each other yesterday.

"I only preach to those whose minds can still be changed." Charles walked with him along the portico that led to the private quarters. Rain fell heavily and drenched the world into shades of grey.

"How long will you stay?"

"That depends on my friend," Charles watched him closely in that moment. He wasn't sure but he thought that for a moment he saw insecurity flicker over Erik's face when until that moment Charles had been sure that that particular feeling was alien to Erik.

"High Keeper?" Erik asked without looking at Charles but staring out into the rain.

"You knew that or you wouldn't have risked coming here."

"I'm hardly younger than you and you already headed and lost a rebellion," it was meant as a joke, eight years should have been enough to joke about it, but Erik turned to him sharply.

"We were fighting for our freedom."

"What freedom?" Charles asked mildly.

"The freedom of choice, of the mind." Charles could see that eight years of exile and hiding had done nothing to Erik's conviction.

"You fought against the freedom we have given the people: there are no wars, no chaos. Society can develop unthreatened from upsetting factors until it reaches its full potential."

"You are like John. You have become so used to this world and its way of thinking that you cannot see what the human mind can accomplish when you let it off the leash. Or do you think the inventions and empires of the past were build by ordinary people?"

"They were built in wars and with the blood of innocents."

"And people killed as "heretics" for being the children or the wives and husbands of those in the New order that died with them? Weren't they innocent?"

"That was not the Keeper's doing." Charles reminded him.

"You knew it was coming. You could have warned us."

"We observe. " Just that, just these two words that people commonly accepted as the creed of the Keepers and Erik let the argument slide.

"Why do I even argue with a Keeper?" He asked self-ironically.

"Because you're a stubborn man, if there ever was one."

"Do still play chess?"

"Of course, "Charles opened the door for him, "I will come by later tonight, if you want."

"I would," Erik smiled softly and covered Charles' hand with his for a moment that Charles pretended not to notice.

"I will see you then."

No one had ever marked Erik and yet no one needed to. He was stained with his original sin. The inescapable fact of what he was and what he would always be. Erik couldn't change, Charles had realised that a long time ago and he had also realised that neither could he.

/

"Morning, Kitty," Bobby said when he came down. She was sweeping the floor, her long hair tied up with a handkerchief.

"Morning, Bobby. Can you scrub the floor?" She leaned the broom against the wall, stretching her back and loosening her neck. Bobby averted his eyes, looking at the floor. It wasn't proper to stare at an expecting woman.

"Has Marie come home tonight?" He asked, not wanting to ask if John did. He hadn't seen her but that didn't necessarily mean that she had stayed out.

"Very late, but yes, she did." Kitty smiled to herself. "Apparently they went to the Opera. That man knows how to treat a woman."

"Not if you believe Remy. All Remy needs are a few pretty words and a couple tricks."

"There are exceptions to the rule. Remy is...an adventure." She laughed when Bobby obviously didn't get her meaning.

"Marie likes Remy's attention but he's not a man, he's a spirit, an incubus if you like."

"That's Pagan talk," Bobby reminded her but Kitty merely shrugged. "Will you arrest me?"

"No, I want you to be careful. And incubi are demons. Are you saying Remy is a demon?"

"In the eyes of the Church he is, menda, furis, coa, nefas, peccator and probably more. It's a phase and afterwards we go home and marry a man."

"Was he that for you?"

"No, you were," she laughed again when she saw his face.

"But..but.." Bobby stuttered.

"Seven years ago a keeper seemed to be the most exotic thing I could dream of. That you're not allowed to marry only heightened my interest."

"I can't believe she's going out with a city Watch captain," Bobby said, changing the subject quickly.

"He's certainly a step up from you, Bobby." Kitty commented, winking at him. Bobby blushed slightly. His and Marie's romance if one could call it that had been short and looking back neither of them could remember why they had thought at the time it would be a good idea. It wasn't as if anything could have come from it except shame.

The first people were already coming in, the usual morning crowd that wanted to get breakfast before heading to the factories and mills or opened their shops for the day. Bobby was looking for John but in vain.

Piotr's cooking wafted through the room, bacon, eggs, tea and coffee with a hint of herbs and boiling water for the stew that would be served by noon.

"John will need that," Kitty mentioned in passing.

"John?" Bobby asked anxiously.

"He came back so drunk he could barely stand up. I made him sleep in the closet. He would have injured himself if he tried to climb the stairs," she shook her head disapprovingly. "I didn't think he would risk going out after everything that happened last night."

After everything that happened last night, Bobby swallowed hard. For a moment he remembered John's dry lips on his own, the faint smell of smoke and exotic herbs that seemed to follow him everywhere.

Then the moment was gone and Piotr called for him from the kitchen to bring out the food to the morning crowd while Kitty was already serving coffee and tea.

By noon John had still not shown his face but Bobby had seen him sleeping in the closet, his face half hidden behind his arm. The sight was alien and familiar at the same time.

The man coming in was a stranger, tall and good-looking with short, dark red hair and sharp green eyes. He moved with the elegant but barely restraint grace of a wild tiger, reminding Bobby of both Remy and John at the same time.

"I'm looking for John Allerdyce. Is he here?" He asked. His pronunciation and accent identified him as an educated man and as foreigner as well.

"Who are you?" Bobby asked wearily.

"An old friend," the man answered enigmatically. His smile was polite but razor sharp and creeped Bobby out slightly. "And an admirer of his books. I can wait for him if he's not here yet."

He turned to Kitty. "A bowl of your stew, please." He gave her slightly more than the stew cost and took his seat at one of the smaller tables from where he could observe both the door and the stairs.

Bobby kept an eye on him the entire time he sat there but the foreigner didn't do anything suspicious nothing to make anyone think he was after John for another reason than his books. Still, something about him unsettled Bobby even though he couldn't place it.

/

Bobby didn't notice when John woke up and left but when Bobby came back to look for him after the lunch crowd was mostly served, he wasn't there anymore.

Instead he came down the stairs about half an hour later in fresh clothes and with wet strands brushing his face. He steadily avoided as much as looking in Bobby's general direction.

Instead he focused on Kitty.

"Grant me mercy with a bowl of your stew," he exclaimed half-seriously, half-dramatically.

"I should let you suffer," Kitty sighed but still served him. John took her hand and brushed a kiss on the back of it. Kitty gently pushed him away.

"You spent too much time with Remy last night." John laughed, "Probably." He dug into his stew with the hunger of a starving man but, curiously, the stranger was only watching John, who hadn't seem to notice him, and made no move to catch his attention. Bobby continued to watch him as he wiped the tables and took the last empty bowls and mugs into the kitchen.

Piotr was chopping vegetables, adding them to the big pot on the stove, filling the kitchen with a smell Bobby had never smelled before.

"What is that?" He asked curiously.

"Borscht," Piotr grinned, "There is a new pub on the other end of the street. We need something special or people will go there."

His accent was heavy and as usual Bobby only understood half of the words and guessed the rest.

"Believers aren't known for their willingness to try new things," Bobby reminded him doubtfully.

Piotr waved his worries away. "No honest man can refuse good Russian food."

Bobby shrugged, why not? He and Kitty could still say it was a special stew if people asked what was in the soup, not that many did. Most of them ate what was put in front of them, no questions asked. John was one of them but Bobby guessed he had to, for all the strange, faraway countries he travelled to.

When he came back into the main room, John was gone and with him the stranger.

/

"I wouldn't have..." In the harsh morning light Erik looked sincere and muted, unlike last night when he had been savage and untamed. John didn't know what to make of the change.

"You wouldn't have what?"

"You seem to be happy here. I wouldn't have come if I had known that."

"But everyone else is gone, so I'm better than nothing?" God, he couldn't still be this bitter. It had been too long for the memory to hurt. And it wasn't fair to Raven either. He was not the man he once was. His trust had been eroded too many times for him to believe that anyone's word was unimpeachable.

And he wasn't happy. How could he ever be happy again when he had so thoroughly ruined the most important relationship he had found since Erik...The urge to run, to hide itched beneath his skin.

/

When John's voice – angry and bitter – faltered at the last words something fluttered inside Erik's chest. Hope. Selfish, cruel hope that there was still a part of John's heart that belonged to him. No matter how small. If things were different, if Erik didn't have a war to fight, if he didn't need John to fight it with him he would have John to be happy. Even without him, but the love burning inside him was selfish and possessive, screaming its rage and pain at the way John seemed to have let go of Erik, forgotten him. And all for a handful of people in a pub in an unimportant Boston street, serving food to Believers and Keepers and Watchers, the same people that had stood by eight years ago when the New Order was slaughtered during the Long Day. When the memories of that day became too much and Erik had to distract himself from it or he would have gone mad, he thought of John. He remembered the curve of John's grin, the softness of his lips, and how his eyes seemed to be ablaze with fire when Erik touched him.

Erik had lived for the last eight years for his revenge, he couldn't John let go of them, of him.

"Say something," John challenged him.

"Come with me."

"No," He replied with familiar anger in his voice. Erik had long since learned how to handle John's anger.

"So that is what you have become then: complacent and comfortable among the same people who wanted to see you burn." Erik's voice was cold and filled with disdain.

"You know nothing about them," John hissed. "They did more for me than you ever could have done, coward!" The last word hurt but Erik didn't want to show him how much. Instead he smirked, crowding John against the wall.

"Could they accept what you really are?" He leaned closer until his body was touching John's and his words brushed John's skin. "What you really want?"

/

Erik kissed him. Kissed him like he used to kiss him, the same onslaught of emotions, like an attack, as if he wanted to smother him, steal the air from his lungs and devour John. There was nothing of the brushing, hazy fleetingness of his kiss with Bobby last night.

John's hand curled weakly against Erik's arm, tightened against the pain and the perfection and the disaster of it.

Bobby would never kiss him like this. Bobby would never kiss him at all. All those years, he had come back for Bobby, had resisted to drown in the anonymity of a foreign country with the wrong name and false words on his lips just to see him one more time, to entertain more daydreams about him.

His anger died out in his chest and his hand slid limply from Erik's arm.

"One day, I can give you one day."

"That was all I asked for," Erik replied. Something flickered in his eyes that made John look away.

"I will see you tonight." He added before leaving, walking away as if nothing had happened at all while John hid his face in the shadows of the wall and pretended there were no tears clinging in the corners of his eyes.

Erik smiled to himself as he walked out of the alley and joined the people of Boston in their daily haste. It wasn't perfect and no one was forgiven, Erik for leaving and John for not going with him, but it was a start.

/

Charles' favourite place was and had always been the library. All the books that had ever been written since the Keepers were founded were kept here. Even those books that the Church and especially the Order of Watt would've loved to see burn together with the heretics who had written them.

Charles found the heretic scripts the most entertaining. Partly because the majority of those books were nonsense, dangerous nonsense even that could have sparked ideas of chaos and unbalance but some were...brilliant. One part of the library was solely filled with works from the New Order: equations and blueprints and detailed notes on every screw and plate, chemical formulas to refine petrol, detailed maps of oil fields all over the world, socioeconomic tracts...

"High Keeper?" Scott was standing in the doorway of the library.

"Scott, what can I do for you?"

"It is about my bro- about Brother Summers. I fear he may be...overly zealous in his duties."

"Alex is still very angry, Scott," Charles reminded him. "Give him more time to find his place."

"That won't help." Next to Scott Armando was leaning heavily on his crutches. Charles frowned. He hadn't heard of any disturbances concerning Alex but if Armando was concerned so should he.

"What happened?"

"Nothing yet, but Alex stands out even among the others."

"Did he talk with you?"

Armando shook his head. "He still doesn't understand why I don't want every Pagans' head on a stake." Next to him Scott looked away. The Marginal Street Riot had caused a lot of bad blood and driven several Keepers into the arms of the Church and even to the Order of Watt.

"Even some of the Church's Believers are becoming wary of him." Scott added. He had to have spoken with Jean then. Most Believers weren't exactly fond of the Keepers and none of them would speak about internal concerns with one of them, unless they came from their order. "They say he's turning the Order of Watt into a too radical direction."

"I wasn't aware that Alex has gained such an influential status within the Order." As far as Charles knew Alex was still a Brother of Arms, the lowest status in the Order of Watt.

"The other Brothers listen to him." Of course they did, people always liked to listen to angry men with aggressive ideas. Erik was the best example of that.

"Thank you, Keeper Summers, you may go now." Scott nodded and left the room while Armando remained. Charles offered him to sit down with him but Armando shook his head.

"Too difficult to get up again." He said with a dry smile.

"What do you think of this situation? Do you believe Alex would go too far even by the standards of the Order?"

"If you asked me three months ago I would have said no but three months ago I would have also said that Alex would never leave us." Armando shook his head as if to get rid of the memories. "I don't know anymore what he's going to do and what not."

"What do you think?"

"Since when do Keepers trust their feelings?" Armando smiled more now than before the Marginal Street Riot, Charles had noticed and all of them seemed genuine which, frankly, made them more unsettling to Charles as if they had been fake because it was obvious that Armando was not fine.

"We trust them to lead us astray. And sometimes to reveal a truth we know but won't acknowledge."

"IN that case, yes, I believe Alex will break every rule in the book. And from what Scott was told by Jean Shaw uses this to gather more public approval for the Order. Marginial Street...it unbalanced too much. And there are rumours."

"What rumours?"

"Magneto and Pyro return from exile at the same time and some people say they've seen Remy LeBeau," The look Armando gave him made clear that he knew more than he said.

"Coincidences and hearsay."

"If you say so, high Keeper," Armando tilted his head respectfully. "I will leave you to your studies."

"Thank you." Charles told him before the door closed behind Armando.


	2. All the Pages Have Turned

"Where are you going?" Bobby asked when John came down, dressed as if he was leaving town.

"Out," John answered laconically. They had avoided each other for the whole day. John had started to rewrite his journey diaries holed up in Bobby's room, not even coming down for something to eat and Bobby had spent his break in the kitchen instead of going up.

"Curfew will be in less than two hours." Sure the fake passport had withstood inspection last night but htere was no guarantee that it would do so again.

"I will be outside the City Watch's boundaries within the hour." John told him emotionlessly.

"You're going to the Pagans?" Without thinking Bobby grabbed John's arm. "If someone sees you there-"

The look John gave him cut deep into Bobby. It was as if John didn't expect him to care anymore.

"We're still friends." Bobby said quietly but it felt as if he was asking a question.

"Are we?" John asked back.

"I hope so," Something shifted in John's eyes, became fragile and vulnerable and yet at the same time he looked as if Bobby was hurting him. He squeezed John's arm before letting go.

"Be careful."

"I'll come back." John promised.

"You always do." Bobby answered and John gave him a small, but grateful smile.

/

Erik already waited for him outside. For a moment the glow of his cigarette made the right side of his face glow in a metallic sheen but it was gone so fast John was sure he only imagined it.

"How did you escape?" John asked as soon as they were a couple streets away from the pub. It wasn't raining but the sky was clouded and the city's lights brightened it to a dull mix of violet and grey.

"Breathing stones for smoke."

"And the fire?"

"They didn't wait for me to burn to the bones. Too many heretics to burn on that day."

"Who helped you?"

"Charles Xavier."

"You're lying."

"Why would I?"

"He's a keeper, High Keeper even. Why would he help you and let his sister burn at the stake?"

"Because he owed me a life." John opened his mouth to ask whose life but Erik shook his head.

"Enough questions. How did you escape? Why didn't they burn you?" John shrugged.

"I don't know why. They just didn't. Two years in jail and then one day they burned me and dropped me on the street."

/

The Pagan camp was buzzing with people. Market day was in two days and for the first time since the Marginal Street Riot the Pagans were allowed back into the city. The fires kept the night and the cold away and John noticed some people nodding and smiling at Erik. The atmosphere was like on the evening before a festival: the women in their best dresses with flowers and wooden jewellery in their pinned-up hair, the men wearing colourful ribbons and children staying up late and running around, laughing.

"Erik," A woman with long black hair and wings tattooed on her shoulders approached them.

"Angel, this is John."

"I've heard about your books."

"Everyone did."

"He's become a little vain," Erik added for which John gave him a nasty look.

"Where's Kurt?" Erik asked. Angel shrugged. "I saw him run off with Ororo earlier. Look around, maybe Janos or Warren know where he is. By the way Erik, Azazel wanted to see you."

"I'll see you later, John, Angel." Erik strode off quickly.

"Who's Kurt?"

"You don't know?" Angel sounded surprised. "He's Mystique's son."

"Mystique didn't have a son."

"Oh, she did. She left him with us to keep him save. She spoke very highly of you. I can't believe she didn't tell you."

"Who's the father?" John asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

"Azazel," She gave him a funny look as if the answer was obvious. "Or maybe Hank. You know Mystique, there were always more men in her life than you could count." She winked at him as if she was including him in that list.

"Ange, n'embarrasse pas chér John." Remy sauntered up to them, his eyes glowing red in the firelight.

"So this is where you're hiding."

"Parfois," Remy grinned. "You can help me. The children demand a story and yours have a more exotic setting than mine." He dragged John off with him to the biggest fire in the middle of the village.

/

Azazel was a haggard man with a scarred face and a disconcerting habit to play with his knives whenever he was not alone. When Erik entered his hut he was throwing them casually from one hand to the other.

"You have brought your friend." He tilted his head, his startling black eyes meeting Erik's. "We can finally go to war."

"He's not there yet."

"Why do you insist on his presence in our war?" One of his knives hit the beam just above Erik's head.

"Is it because he's a valuable warrior?" He threw another one. "Or is it that you don't want him to be collateral damaged on the wrong side of the war?"

"Both," Erik answered and added, mildly annoyed, "Could you stop that?"

"Why?" Azazel challenged him with a devilish grin on his face. "Are you afraid? Don't you think that if I had wanted to kill you I would have already done that?"

"It's simply distracting," Erik answered in that same, annoyed tone.

Azazel sighed but did put his knives on the nearest table and keeping only one in the sheath on his belt. "I did intimidate you, didn't I?" He grinned. "Will you come with back with us to the City?"

"There will be too many Brothers on the street. Neither of us should go."

"No..." Azazel trailed off, "I will send Angel instead. She doesn't like them but she's better with the people there." He laid a hand on Erik's shoulder.

"Join us, the harvest was good, that's a good sign for us." He pushed the door curtain aside. Children's laughter spilled into the room with John's voice rising above it. Erik watched him for a moment while he gestured animatedly to support whatever story he was telling.

John laughed when one of the children asked a question and then suddenly looked over at him from where he was sitting with Kurt and Remy by his side and just like that, the years disappeared and they were Pyro and Magneto again, sharing something beautiful, precious, and fragile in dangerous and cruel times.

For the blink of a moment Erik thought that he should call all of this off if he could only have this for the rest of his life, this rare feeling of harmony.

But then Remy leaned over to whisper something in John's ear and John's contact with him broke and his sincere smile turned suggestive and jealousy flared up in Erik's chest, black and ugly like the sky over the city when the wind wasn't there to scatter the smoke from the factories.

/

Later, much later, so late that Erik couldn't tell if it was closer to midnight or morning, John pulled him aside.

"You think I don't know what you're trying to do?" He asked in a low voice. "Bringing me here, Mystique's son, Remy...but there are four people in a pub just off the harbour that were there for me for the last six years. I won't see them die."

"Do you really think your refusal to fight will prevent this war?"

"No, but if I stay I can fight for them."

"Would they do the same for you?"

"They already did." He was pushing aside the memory of Bobby pushing him away, of the kiss that never should have been. Because Bobby still wanted to be his friend and there were Kitty and Piotr and the child they had waited for, for as long as John had known them and Marie who dreamed of a better life with finer clothes and a bigger house.

"You don't have to do this," he pleaded finding Erik's eyes. "We could leave. You could come with me. Together, we could travel the world. It's beautiful, it's magnificent. Please! Why do you want to fight a war that we already lost?"

"Because it is worth it. Wouldn't you like a world without the Church or the Oder or the Keepers? No one to brand you, no one to burn you at stake for your ideas, no antiquated rules enforced on our lives." He rubbed his thumb over John's bare wrist, enforcing his words.

John looked away but he nodded slowly. "Who wouldn't?"

Erik raised his hand to caress John's cheek lightly. "Stay here, John. This is where you belong."

"I can't abandon them." But it sounded weak and Erik knew he had done the first step into the right direction.

/

The next morning Erik and John were woken by loud voices. Erik had changed his strangely modern, European suit for the looser clothes the Pagans wore. John thought it suited him even though it also made him look more savage and unbound.

"Keepers?" John asked as soon as he saw what had caused the early racket. "What do the Keepers want here?"

"They come to help us," Erik said, watching with him as the oldest of the Keepers exchanged pleasantries with Azazel. "Food, medicine, news from the City." His hand lay heavy on John's shoulder.

"We have more support inside there than you can imagine."

"They'll never help us fight a war against the Order. It would upset their precious balance."

"No, "Erik replied intensely. "They upset that balance when they let us be slaughtered eight years ago. They will help us because what we're about to do will help them. Besides, "He laughed humourlessly, "there's no love between the Keepers and the Brothers."

John wanted to argue but the facts were right in front of him, the obvious familiarity between the Pagans and the group of Keepers, the lack of hostile looks from the crowd. This was obviously a longstanding alliance. He still shook his head.

"My point stands." He told Erik, "I won't fight against my friends, neither you nor them." With those words he left Erik. And Erik realized he was in love with a ghost. That the John he remembered, the one he left, was gone, and what he had here was an altogether different machine. Still, maybe he had a chance to reassemble John into the man he had once been. Erik was an engineer, repairing broken things was his job.

/

It was market day in Boston and the inhabitants of Massachusetts and the Pagans streamed into the city to sell their goods. John carried Kurt on his back so that the boy could see better and wouldn't get lost in the crowd while Angel was carrying the Pagans' art wares on her back as did a handful others that had come with them.

On the corners of the main streets and on every even slightly elevated place travelling artists had made their home, fire eaters, jongleurs, rope dancers and more entertaining the masses for a few left over coins.

John suddenly realised that he had only been back for a week. A single week since the ship had arrived in New York and that was why the sight was so unusual and alien to him. The last time he had been in Boston for market day was two years ago.

On his back Kurt twisted around so much to see everything that John had to put him down.

"I'll take him," Angel said," Can you help the others to set up the stand?"

"Making me work on my day off?"

"I thought all your days here were your day off."

"Lies, I have books to write."

"Then why did you agree to come with us in the first place." Her eyes sparkled when he didn't have an answer to that.

He could see Remy flitting between the crowd, no doubt relieving the less vigilant of their coins and jewels. Janos and Warren had come with them, setting up the stand where they would sell fruits and trinkets and other things the Pagans produced. Out of the corner of his eye John could see that Ororo had managed to nick one of the apple pies from the neighbouring stand and was eating it half hidden under the counter. When she saw that he had seen her she tried to hide the pie behind her back but John only winked at her and went back to work.

"Traitor!" Someone hissed and John turned around, thinking it was directed at him. Instead there was a group of three watchers sneering at Warren who very pointedly ignored them.

"I see you lot don't have a lot of friends here," John said half-joking, half-serious. Warren made a snide noise in his throat. "my father is the current bishop here." He said disparagingly. John wasn't particularly surprised. All factions attracted lots of different people who changed their minds all the time.

Janos had discovered Ororo too and was chasing her between the stands, oblivious the fact that John and Warren needed a third hand to fasten the marquee.

"Why doesn't he speak?" John asked while trying to tie a knot with one hand over his head where he couldn't see it while avoiding people to run into him.

"I don't know. He came to us with Azazel. I never heard him speak and he has that scar on his neck as if he survived a hanging. Maybe that's why he doesn't speak or cannot speak," Warren shrugged. "Who knows? I'm not a doctor."

Janos retuned with a giggling Ororo under his arm and Angel came back as well, handing Kurt over to him before helping John and Warren. Even in her more city-appropriate dress she still looked exotic and strange and attracted a lot of looks.

"Looks like it might-"John found never out what she was going to say. A tall, blonde man had grabbed her by her hair, forcing her away from the rest of them. Angel gasped but no one reacted, half of the plaza didn't even to notice what was going on.

"You will get what you and your kind deserve." John made a step forward but Janos caught him by the arm, shaking his head. The blonde man drew Angel closer into the circle of his fellow Brothers, his knife at her exposed throat.

"Run." Angel said.

And all hell broke loose.

/

"John, what-"Kitty started when he burst into the pub, dragging Kurt with him. "What happened to you?"

"I need to hide him."

"Hide him from what?" But the loud voices of the Brothers and the City Guard answered her question for him.

"What did he do?"

"He's a Pagan boy, that's what he did." John said in a challenging tone. Kitty seemed to consider that for a second before she tilted her head.

"Follow me."

She lead them to the cellar where they kept the beer and even one or two barrels of rather good, red wine that John had got drunken on after his first book had been published.

"Roll that aside," She ordered, nodding towards the wine barrow.

"Down there," She opened a trap door after John had rolled the barrel aside.

"You have access to the sewers?"

"All successful pubs do," She shrugged. He gave her a sceptical look. "At least all that were built after the prohibition do."

"They don't even reach the outskirts but most of them lead to the sea. I guess you can make your way from there."

/

"Hey," John leaned against the door frame, his cloak wrapped around him as if it was all that was holding him together.

"John," for a moment Bobby wanted to hug him but held back at the last moment. Given what had happened the last time this wasn't appropriate between them anymore.

"When was the last time you slept in bed?" He asked lightly, trying to lighten the mood.

"When was the last time I was here?" John joked but he looked exhausted. As if he'd been wading through hell following the thinnest thread of hope to save somebody he loved.

And failed.

He staggered more than walked into the room and sat down heavily on his bed. Bobby, who had been half crazy with fear that the City Watch had thrown John into prison again, stood in front of him and began to unlace John's hood since he didn't look as if he was capable of doing it himself anymore. Finally he pushed it from John's shoulders and gasped when he saw John's bloody, dirt-encrusted hands curled against his chest. There were blood stains on his shirt as well and on his skin, red-brown smudges that almost vanished against his tan.

A shudder ran through John's body when Bobby touched his hands.

"You were there, weren't you? When the Order killed that Pagan woman," He ran a hand through John's messy hair soothingly. John leaned his forehead against Bobby's stomach, drawing another shuddering breath while Bobby's hands continued to stroke his hair. There were tears and the crush of regret on his shoulders and Bobby curled an arm around him and whispered, hushed, soothed.

"I'm sorry." Bobby whispered, dry lips brushing by John's ear. "I'm so sorry. It'll get better, I promise. It'll get better."

It's not right, John told himself as he tried to banish Angel from his thoughts. This will never be right.

"It's over. You can come home now."

"They slit her throat," John whispered, "and no one cared. No one tried to help. Not even me. I just ran."

"That doesn't matter, "Bobby told him in a calming voice," She shouldn't have come here. It's not your fault. She was the one who started the Marginal Street Riot when she pushed Keeper Munoz under the carriage. It's fine now, the balance is restored."

"That is all you Keepers care about: the Balance." John replied bitterly.

"Of course, that is what keeps us safe, all us: Pagans, Believers, Brothers, everyone."

"And the New Order?"

"I'm sorry," Bobby said helplessly. John held his eyes for a long moment and then he nodded.

"Thank you," he said, standing up. "I'll go down and wash. I'll see you for dinner."

He turned around at the door, looking for a moment as if he wanted to say something else but then the expression vanished from his face. As if everything that had or would ever matter had been said between them.

/

Night fell over Boston and the wind came cold and damp from the sea, sweeping through empty, light-filled streets and through draughty windows and walls. From the other bed John could hear Bobby shiver in his sleep and saw him drawing the quilt more tightly around his body.

As soon as John was sure that Bobby was deeply asleep he rose from the bed and began to dress himself, packing the few things he had except for his notebooks. He wouldn't need them where he was going. He was certainly never going to publish them either and Bobby had always liked his stories best of all. John took the letter he had written this evening and put it on top of his books. There were some other trinkets he was leaving behind as well: a soft, warm blanket for Kitty's baby, a pair of jade earrings for Marie and an unfinished compilation of recipes from all over the world for Piotr. They had meant to be gifts for later occasions, bought during a time when John had thought that he would always have this home. He was already out of the door when he changed his mind and walked back into Bobby's room silently. Bobby had always been a heavy sleeper, sprawled on his stomach, face half hidden between the shadows cast by his arm and the quilt John had bought him in Tierra del Fuego. There was no reason for him to stay. No reason at all. Yet there he stood, above the bed, just watching.

_iWake up and ask me to stay. Ask me for you and I'll say yes./i_

And it felt like no time had passed at all, like those six years were just a flower that had been trampled in the street – not because someone wanted to destroy it but because no one cared to look at the floor – like dust swept aside when someone walked by too closely.

Over dinner Bobby had smiled at him for a whole second and John hadn't wanted to leave. He never really wanted to leave but the ache in his chest felt ready to explode and Bobby's momentary smiles and almost glances that were getting John's heart running weren't worth it. Only this time he would leave permanently and where a Believer would have prayed, John merely hoped that his and Bobby's paths would never cross again.

"You are the hero of this story," and I am the villain, he thought uncharitably. John turned around and left and didn't look back again. Everything between them would be burned away soon enough.

/

Erik didn't look surprised when John finally reached the village in the early morning hours and crawled under the covers with him. But he also saw Erik looking at him and seeing something light and free that came dangerously close to regret in those eyes.

John had known that Erik would wait for him, would stay the first attack until he was sure John had chosen him. John knew that Erik knew he knew that but what he didn't know was where that put them. It probably didn't matter anyway.

The Keepers would not stand aside when the Pagans took their revenge and the New Order avenged their fallen comrades. Bobby would fight. He was too noble not to and too loyal. John didn't want to be there, didn't want to see himself with a knife at Bobby's throat.

In the dark of the night he buried his fear in Erik's arms and mouth, trying to remind himself that this was the man he had vowed his loyalty that he was the man John would follow into death.


	3. And Then There Were None

"The Order announced that despite Angel's cowardly murder they will honour the old ways and let us into the City for the Feast of the Victorious Dead." Azazel told the assembled Pagans. He was standing on a tree with the ritualistic blue war paint forming complicated patterns on his skin.

"We will go there and take them in the early morning. We will slit their throats like they did to Angel!" The crowd howled in approval. It was infectious. "Every Brother you find you can consider a sacrifice. After tomorrow they will no longer celebrate the Feast of the Victorious Dead. After tomorrow they will mark it as the last day of the Order!"

John cheered with the rest of them. He caught Erik's eyes and saw him smile dangerously, wild and savage like a vengeful god.

"For Death!" Azazel threw his arm into the air.

"Death!" Everyone yelled.

"And Blood!"

"Blood!"

"And Revenge."

"Revenge!" John screamed with the others as loud as he could.

/

Charles didn't like boats since he couldn't use his exoskeleton on them. The movement of the ship in the ocean was too unpredictable, but the sea was the only neutral ground all parties had been able to agree on. Armando didn't do any better than him but he had insisted on coming along.

He hadn't thought that things would progress so quickly but it seemed the balance yearned to be repaired and spun things faster to achieve this. On the other hand he shouldn't have been surprised. Like Armando had said it couldn't have been a coincidence that Erik, Pyro and Remy had returned to the City at the same time, then the murder of that Pagan woman in broad daylight...

"Fate doesn't knock, it runs into you and leaves you spinning and breathless," Erik had once told him but this morning fate had knocked and told him that Keeper Drake would like to speak with him.

Robert Drake was a good and loyal soldier; Charles had no doubt in that. After all he had brought the letter Pyro had written him to the Keep himself. But Charles had been young once, too and new that emotions could muddle the clean line between loyalty and betrayal, especially when they were conflicting.

Oh Charles had been young once, young and foolish and in love with a man so disillusioned with the world that rejected his radical ideas that instead of choosing Charles and the peace he had offered he had placed all his hopes and dreams in a boy angry and violent enough to want to watch the world burn. The same boy who had become the man that Drake had seemed to have fallen for as well.

/

"_What do you know about John Allerdyce?"_

"_He's a writer. He travels a lot, all over the world. He's my friend."_

"_Just your friend." Bobby looked scandalised and just a little bit guilty._

"_Yes."_

"_Did you know that he used to be in the New Order?"_

"_He told me."_

"_When did you last saw him?" _

"_Two days ago."_

"_What did he do?"_

"_He left. I mean he came back first and then he left again, leaving me this letter." _

"_You did well. Thank you Keeper Drake."_

"_He will be...I mean he will be fine, right? It is just a letter."_

"_Don't worry Keeper Drake."_

/

They had all come: Jean Grey, Emma Frost, James Logan, Remy LeBeau and Warren Worthington, the first council of a new dawn as the Keepers called it in over a hundred years and in the first one on this continent.

"A clandestine meeting in the middle of the night out in the ocean?" Emma asked, "What is wrong, Keeper?"

"We're on the brink of civil war, but you know that." Charles said to which Emma shrugged ineffectually.

"You're here because the balance needs to be restored."

"It's a bit late for words," Logan reminded him gruffly.

"I wasn't talking about diplomacy." Charles made a small pause to make sure he had everyone's full attention. "I was talking about the complete eradication of the leading figures in all involved factions."

For a moment no one said a word. Then, slowly, Remy clapped his hands sarcastically.

"Très bien," he said from where he was leaning casually against the wall. "So we do the Pagan's work for them, fine by me as long as I get paid."

Charles ignored him in favour of looking at Warren. "Azazel has to die, too. And Janos, just to be sure. He's the most loyal to Azazel. Can you step in once they're dead?"

"There's no one else, not since Angel's murder. And while there's little love between me and my father we're not out to hurt each other."

"I will inform him." Jean assured them. "Bishop Worthington knows better than to meddle in the affairs of the Keepers."

"How do we deal with the Order?" Warren asked.

"Which one?" Remy wanted to know.

"The New Order has only two members left," Logan rolled his eyes, "that shouldn't be a problem. The Order of Watt is one."

"Who is there?" Warren asked, "Shaw's pretty much all that holds them together."

"And Alex." Armando spoke for the first time tonight and looked as if each single word hurt him. "He's too dangerous and has too much support to be left alive."

"The City Watch will be a problem too." Logan said, "Stryker and Shaw are close allies."

"Aren't you Stryker's successor?" Emma asked, "He speaks highly of you."

"He hasn't named one yet but it's either me or Victor." He looked at Charles," And Victor is not the man you want in charge if you look for peace."

"And you cannot be seen near either of them when they're killed." Jean finished for him.

"Clever girl," Logan smirked at her.

Remy sighed, "That is a lot of work for one night: Azazel, Janos, Stryker, Shaw, Victor, Magneto, Pyro, this Alex, bon dieu that will take ages"

"I will take care of Erik," Charles said quietly. The silence that followed was broken only by splash outside. A dolphin, probably, trying to get the attention of the sailors.

"And I of Alex." Armando added determinedly. His mechanical eyes didn't give away the slightest bit of emotion.

"If Janos vanished some time after Azazel's death no one will ask questions." Warren replied as well.

"Only five then," Remy sighed again, "C'est pour le mieux."

"One last thing," Emma asked in a bored voice. "Who will succeed Shaw?"

"You."

"Me? What makes you think the Order will accept a woman as their leader?"

"I don't think they will accept you but I know that you will make them." He smirked. "It's a new idea. And what better way to enforce it?"

"I guess if you also get rid of the hardliners then there won't be enough Brothers to protest much against my nomination."

"The Keepers will expect that you and Logan will keep the Order and the City Watch away from each other. No more crossed jurisdiction between your factions."

"I'm sure there is enough work in the City for the Order to concentrate on something else than to harass pagans and fight with the Watch." Emma smiled confidently.

It was done. Charles felt surprisingly relieved how easily the meeting had gone but then he suspected that Jean had prepared at least some of them. And it was common knowledge that guileless people didn't stay in a position of power. They either learned to be guile or were removed from power.

"You don't have to do what you offered to do." Charles said to Armando.

"No, I do. For him." Charles hadn't been there three months ago but according to the witnesses Armando had stretched out his hand towards Alex and Alex had failed to reach him in time, failed to pull him away from the explosion. It destroyed Armando's body, leaving him more clockwork doll than human but also destroyed Alex soul, making it a black, rotting ground of hatred.

"Alex isn't there anymore." Armando's hands tighten on the railing so much his knuckles turn white. "It will be a mercy."

Charles thought to himself that he was most likely right and then hated himself a bit for that.

/

On the night of the Feast of the Victorious Dead fires and torches replaced the gas lamps and the whole City was decorated in vermillion and gold, the colours of the Order of Watt. People were dancing, chatting, laughing on the street, enjoying the food and drink that the Order provided tonight. Also most people wore traditional clothes and for once no one could have told Pagans and city-dwellers apart.

The temperatures had dropped just the night before but the wind was silent for once and instead snow fell. Azazel had sent them into the city with the order to enjoy themselves, lure everyone into a false sense of security and then kill them in the morning when they would be too drunk and exhausted to defend themselves.

There was music and people and laughter, food and drink and more people. John hadn't seen so many people in one spot since he had been in Samarkand for the Navroʻz new year festival and enjoyed it thoroughly.

Erik on the other hand was frowning each time he didn't notice John was looking at him. They had broken away from the other Pagans earlier when John had pulled Erik into a crowd of dancers, mostly because the rest of them had been going in the direction of the pub and that was the last place John wanted to be on this night.

Or ever again.

He pulled Erik into the shadows of an alley when he saw that Erik tried to sneak away.

"Where are you going?" He asked, feeling drunk on anticipation and cheap beer.

"I'll visit an old friend," Erik kissed him, his hand messing up John's hair, pressing him against the wall. Reckless and drunk John tried to wrap his legs around Erik's waist, tried to get away with what could get them hanged. Here, now, one last time defiling the old world's rules just for the sake of breaking them but John laughed against his skin and pushed him away.

"Tomorrow," John whispered, his eyes burning with life.

"Tomorrow, we will stand in a new world," Erik promised him, kissing him again.

/

Charles waited for him in the library.

"How are you, my friend?" He asked when Erik sat down on opposite of him.

"I'm looking forward to the future." Erik replied.

"So do I." Their eyes, each of them thinking they knew something the other one didn't but only Erik didn't manage to hold back the triumph from his eyes.

"You always knew." Charles acknowledged that fact by tilting his head slightly.

"Why? Why let all of this happen when you had the possibility to stop it?"

"We don't question, we observe." Charles reminded him but stopping him before Erik could interrupt, "but to answer your question: We saw that the world wasn't ready for you and your inventions. You are too fast and too radical. It would have ended in chaos and blood."

"More than it already did?"

"Much more," Charles replied with certainty. "You simply had the misfortune to be born too early but your ideas will survive. We saved them last time for...a more suitable time if you want to say so."

"What about the others? The Pagans? The Order of Watt?"

"We're at war. I did what I had to do." Erik swallowed at Charles' finalising sincerity.

"How does this go together with your creed?"

"Our creed, "Charles laughed, delighted that even Erik had bought the common myth. "We observe is not our creed," he smiled pleasantly at Erik, "Our creed is: Keep the balance at every cost." He emphasised the last two words and watched Erik's face change when he began to understand.

Every truth could destroy just as easily as it could heal. And then there were some truths that should never be said. And some truths were so cruel that they destroyed every trust. Even if he let him go today, which Charles wouldn't do, but if he would Erik was still lost to him.

"What you were about to do would have pushed this country into a civil war. As the capital it would have sent waves of hatred through the whole continent."

"How many?" Erik asked quietly.

"We don't expect many casualties. Most people won't even notice what is happening until tomorrow or the day after. You chose the night of your action well, my friend."

"How…how will make sure that the people don't rise against the Keepers when the truth comes out. Or will you kill the witnesses too?"

"I told you we won't kill more than strictly necessary. Your friend…Remy finds no pleasure in killing those he likes but he makes it as quick and painless as possible."

"John-" Erik started, rage boiling under his skin.

"-chose your side, again." Charles interrupted him coolly. "If you had wanted him to be safe you shouldn't have dragged him into this. We spared his life last time because I knew how much he meant to you but you should have known better."

"It's not his fault." Erik insisted.

"Maybe not, but that hardly matters anymore."

"Is that what you told yourself when they burned Raven at the stake?"

"She choose her own path and I chose mine." But he didn't quite meet Erik's eyes. "I respected all of her choices, even that my nephew would grow up among the Pagans when he could have-"

"-become a Keeper. I wonder why she chose against that." Erik replied sarcastically. He stood up and walked to the window, aware that Charles was watching every movement.

"Do you really think that if everyone gave up passion for responsibility the world would be a better place?"

"You think it will be a worse one." Charles said instead of an answer.

It was everyone against everyone; a war without mercy and he should have understood sooner what that meant. Here, in Charles' room everything seemed so civilised and Erik felt tired. Tired of war, tired of bloodshed. He had lost once and while he could fight, he was feeling tired of that, too. John was dead and the seemed poorer for it, bleaker. Maybe Charles was right, maybe the world would be a better place without him and his ideas in it. Duller, yes, but maybe better. He leaned down to take the knife from his boot.

"I don't want credit for the things I have done," Erik said tiredly, holding the knife out to Charles. "Better to blame my sins on God than anyone else."

"Why God?"

"Because you won't claim responsibility for this night. You're the unsung saviour of this world. There's no one left but God then."

"I don't expect anyone to thank me for damning them." Charles said quietly.

"The damned never do." Erik sat down again. He was taller than Charles and while he would have liked to die standing it would make things more complicated and would probably result in a messy and unnecessary slow and painful death. And, really, who would ever know?

"I'm sorry my friend," Charles said, resting the edge of the knife against Erik's throat. "But I'm afraid this will hurt."

John

Just a word and a face echoing through Erik's head, reminding him of all the things that he should have said.

I think I love you

/

Charles stood there for a few moments. From above it looked as if Erik had only fallen asleep in his chair , at least if one ignored the considerable amount of blood on his clothes. He closed Erik's eyes and wiped the tears from his own cheeks, noticing too late that his hands were bloody.

He pulled out his handkerchief, wiping his face and hands on it before letting it fall to the ground next to Erik's chair. It would be burned to tomorrow with the rest.

His reflection in the window showed Charles a respectable face, maybe a bit red around the eyes but nothing that might lead someone to question if the truth the Keepers were going to tell the world at dawn was perhaps bent and things still dearer were broken, so that none but the very nearest might know how certain victories could taste of nothing but ashes.

/

John was still looking for Erik when someone pulled him roughly away from the crowd. John was about to hit his attacker but stopped in the last moment when he saw that it was Bobby.

"What are you doing?" He asked when Bobby pulled him further away.

"We need to leave," Bobby told him urgently. "You need to come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere." John yanked his arm free.

"You don't understand. They're going to kill you."

"Who? Because if you're talking about the Order-"

"I'm not. I'm talking about the Keepers. About Remy."

"You're not making any sense." John tried to go back the festival but Bobby stopped him.

"The High Keeper has ordered the execution of everyone involved in the civil war between the Pagans and the City including you."

"Why would they do that?"

"To keep the balance, to maintain the peace."

"By murdering people?"

"We're peacekeepers with everything that entails." Bobby looked at him so desperately as if he could make John understand by holding his eyes. "And I wasn't supposed to tell you that."

"How do you know this?"

"I followed them. I'm a good swimmer. Remy will kill you tonight."

"Since when is Remy one of you?"

"He's not. He's getting paid for this. I guess he's an assassin from the guild in New Orleans."

"That sounds like one of these absurd conspiracies."

"Would it help to make you believe me if I told you that Erik Lehnsherr is dead? So are Colonel Stryker by the way and Sebastian Shaw. We need to get out of the city before Remy catches up with you. Piotr is waiting for us at the northern gate."

"You're lying."

"I'm not, I'm sorry John."

"He isn't dead."

"I saw it, I'm so sorry. I didn't want to believe it either, that's why I stayed at the keep tonight. The High keeper killed him."

One hand buried in John' hair, holding on as he told him everything and it was impossible, even years afterwards to decide whether it had been an act of trust or revenge.

But then the Keepers had an old proverb: whoever looks for the truth deserves punishment for finding it.

Finally, finally Bobby was able to convince John to come with him, to follow him stumbling to the northern gate, to the horses and then north, north, north until the sky turned from dark blue to violet and green.

"Where are we?" John asked when they finally stopped. He felt numb, hollow. Part of him wanted to lie down and die. Not a new feeling but the last time he had felt like this was eight years ago and it had been summer then. If he lay down here he would freeze to death. Someone told him once that freezing was a pleasant death but he couldn't remember who had said that.

"Right at the border." Piotr told him. He took one of the bags from his saddle and gave it to John.

"That is yours."

"How did you…?"

"Kitty got it from a nice Pagan boy. He seemed very keen to help us save you. Said you knew his mother." Piotr smiled and gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder.

"Your passport is in there, too." Bobby added, "It's not the same but a blank one. You can choose whoever you want to be."

"And this?" John held up his arm, rolling up his sleeve.

"I can help you with that." He took a fine knife out of his pocket and took John's wrist in his free hand.

"I'm sorry, but this will hurt." Bobby said before nodding to Piotr to keep John still as he carved into his forearm. John screamed like he hadn't screamed since they branded him as a sinner and heretic. As soon as Bobby withdrew the knife he looked down and saw that the P on his arm was now an R – redemption, shimmering in the blue-green ink only the Church knew how to make.

"You're free." Bobby told him. The sun was rising in the east, colouring the sky in the most beautiful colours John had ever seen. "You can do whatever you want now. Write down all the stories you told me."

"Why?"

"I think..."Bobby hesitated, "I think I was the reason you kept coming to Boston, right?" John nodded dimly. "So I'm partially responsible for all of this. Just promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"I want you to live your life as if you have never met me," John's throat clenched tighter, tighter, tighter as Bobby told him this, as he doomed John to a life without him. "Take whatever path you want and walk it in your way. Don't think about me, don't think about…Erik. Don't regret anything." Bobby hugged him and John, God, John wanted to get closer, wanted to melt into Bobby's skin and be a part of him. Then they never would have to return to the world, this would never have to end... John had to hold him still and beg for a second, fighting not to grab Bobby's shoulders and kiss him until he promised him everything.

_Come with me, we have to leave now, both of us, before I lose you_

But John let go of him because there was nothing else to say, nothing that would change Bobby's mind. It was as if they had so much to say and nothing to say to one another anymore.

Instead he said his goodbyes to Piotr and then walked determinedly over the border without looking back once.

He was free.

The word felt bitter on his tongue and burned on his arm. Freedom's price was never too high, he had learned that. But the price he'd paid may kill him anyway, in the end.

Better to die a free man.

Better to die.


End file.
